


golden hour

by cherryconke



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Memories, Romance, Valentine's Day Fluff, a literal walk down memory lane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryconke/pseuds/cherryconke
Summary: Sylvain laughs against his lower lip, slides his thumb across his cheek. Now he’s kissing him again, chaste little things that spread fleeting and hot across Felix’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his eyelids.“I love you, Fe,” Sylvain murmurs, but he’s shushing Felix with his thumb dragging across his lip, “and there’s something I want to ask you.”
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 326
Collections: Sylvix Squad Super Stories





	golden hour

**Author's Note:**

> me irl: i hate valentine's day  
> also me: here's 9.5k of happy sappy sylvix romance

_you’re my golden hour, the color of my sky_  
 _you set my world on fire_ _  
and i know, i know, everything’s gonna be alright_

_—_

_I don’t want to do anything for Valentine’s Day,_ Felix says, and for once, Sylvain listens.

They’re on their weekly trip to the grocery store, Felix half-pushing, half-hanging off the cart, Sylvain humming something slightly off-key but still somehow melodic as he picks through the avocado bin to find _just_ the right one, when the topic comes up. They’d been talking about Dorothea and Ingrid’s recent engagement – Sylvain rambling on about how gorgeous their save the date invitation was, Felix content to push the cart and listen – when they rounded the corner to a particularly atrocious display.

It’s pink and white and red all over, towers of overpriced chocolates competing with bouquets of carnations and heart-shaped candy bar arrangements. Meaningless trinkets are sprinkled throughout, sparkly garlands and cheap silver necklaces and teddy bears holding signs that say _I wuv U beary much!_

Felix _hates_ it.

“Awww, Fe! Looooook!”

Sylvain immediately melts into the sappy human equivalent of the heart-eyes emoji next to his name in Felix’s phone, right at the same time Felix makes a _tch_ noise in the back of his throat. He tries to push the cart forward, but Sylvain’s grip tugging on his wrist is too strong for him to wiggle out of.

“This one’s so cute! It looks just like you.” 

Felix bats him away with his free hand, trying to fight down the grin forming as Sylvain shoves a plushie of a black cat holding a box of candy hearts in his face. Okay, so maybe it is _kind_ _of_ cute. He snatches it out of Sylvain’s hand and places it back on top of the variety box of chocolates it’d been perched on.

“You’re ridiculous.” Felix tries to sound disdainful, but it comes out half-hearted, and anyway, Sylvain can see right through him. Sylvain retaliates by wrapping his arms around Felix, caging him in the warmth of his arms as they continue to push the cart together.

“But really, Fe. Valentine’s Day is coming up. I can’t wait to spoil you again.” Sylvain plants a kiss behind Felix’s ear before dropping his chin to rest on top of his head as they continue their slow stroll down the frozen aisle. Felix quietly chews his lip, eyes unfocused on the rows of frozen pizza and microwave burritos before them, lit up in perfect fluorescents.

“Syl?”

“Hmm, yeah, babe?” Sylvain rubs his thumb over the back of Felix’s hand, soft and absentminded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Felix’s stomach flip-flops uncomfortably, his next words coming out in a rush:

“I don’t want to do anything for Valentine’s Day.”

Silence stretches on until Felix stops the cart, turns around, and fists his hands nervously into the front of Sylvain’s jacket. The look on Sylvain’s face is quiet and a little hurt, even as he brings a hand to Felix’s cheek, thumbing a stray lock of hair away from his face.

“Not even dinner?”

Felix sighs, because now he’s hurt Sylvain’s feelings, which was _not_ his intention at all. He just never really believed in celebrating Valentine’s Day until Sylvain came along – sweets have always made him sick, he’s never had anyone to spend it with, and anyway, the entire Hallmark industry is just plain _weird,_ a manufactured celebration designed to make corporations money on _love._ And he loves Sylvain – he really, really loves Sylvain – but holy shit did he go over the top for this stupid holiday.

Last year, February 14th had been a whirlwind of chocolates and candles and carnations, petals scattered down the hall and across the entirety of their bedroom floor. Before that had been dinner, and before _that_ had been drinks – at the swankiest steakhouse and cocktail bar in town, respectively. The whole evening had been charged with the static electricity of Felix, so clearly out of his element that he’d almost knocked over a full wine glass with too much restless energy; of Sylvain, gazing doe-eyed across the table at him. 

The year before that? Well, the stomach flu is just about the furthest thing from romantic, especially when they’d only been dating for a half a year at that point. Despite that, Sylvain had rubbed his back and held his hair and wiped his forehead down with cold washcloths until his fever broke. He’d brought him tea and ginger ale and Gatorade; had even deep cleaned Felix’s entire apartment while he was dead to the world, recovering on the couch.

So, not exactly the ideal Valentine’s Day, but Felix had found it incredibly endearing nonetheless. No wonder his top result on that dumb quiz Sylvain made him take online was _acts of service._

“No,” Felix admits, glancing away. “Look, I– I’d rather just spend it with you. No fancy dinners or gifts… none of that extra stuff. Just stay in together for the day, maybe watch some movies–”

Felix gets cut off by Sylvain kissing him soft and slow, caged in between his arms and their half-full shopping cart, the colorful labels of mint chocolate chip ice cream and lemon sorbet reflecting back at them in the neon glow of the frozen food aisle. It’s chaste, lacking the tongue and teeth that make up most of their kisses, but Felix still feels a little dazed when Sylvain pulls away to look down at him with a warm smile.

“A movie day sounds great.” 

“Yeah?” Felix can’t help but smile back, small and quiet, as Sylvain’s hands trace swirling patterns across his lower back through his coat. Sylvain laughs, flashing too-white teeth as he does, before leaning down to plant another kiss, firm, against Felix’s forehead.

“Yeah, love. It’s a date.”

—

_“Feeeeeeeee."_

Felix _hmmphs,_ burrows his face into Sylvain’s chest a little more, pressing a sleepy kiss to his collarbone. He squeezes his eyes shut, wraps his arms around his broad chest a little tighter, not quite ready to wake up from his nap.

“Can we get ice cream?”

Felix rolls over from where he’s pressed against Sylvain’s chest, blinking blearily up at him. 

Sylvain’s bedhead is atrocious, hair standing up every which way, a little sweaty where it sticks to his forehead. It’s mussed from spending the entire day lounging in their pajamas, cruising straight through the entire Lord of the Rings boxed set right into the first few episodes of Game of Thrones. 

It’s been the perfect day, as far as Felix is concerned – alternating his attention between watching movies and fucking around lazily: mouthing over the head of Sylvain’s cock, sloppy and slow while they’re still sleep-hazy in bed; riding him deep, perched on the arm of their new leather sofa as the DVD menu loops in the background; littering little marks and kisses across Sylvain’s neck in the kitchen while they’re waiting for the kettle to boil, only to rinse and repeat until Felix is a boneless, fucked-out mess, soft and pliant in Sylvain’s arms. 

Felix fell asleep almost immediately after Sylvain sucked him off on the couch, murmuring sweet nothings into his thighs and the hollows of his hips. He burrows into the warm heat of Sylvain’s arms, wearing one of his stolen sweaters, so oversized it won’t stop slipping off his shoulders. Sylvain’s hand rubs soothing circles into his back. The sweater smells overwhelmingly, intoxicatingly like him: orange peels and fresh pine needles, all clean and warm and good. Felix grumbles a bit, presses his nose into Sylvain’s chest a little further.

“Fe, I know you’re awake.”

“Mmm.”

Sylvain nudges Felix gently in his side until he turns to look up at him. The little crinkles Sylvain gets around his eyes when he smiles like this at him, soft and sweet, catch and pull _hard_ on Felix’s heartstrings. Sylvain leans down to mark a trail of featherlight kisses across both his cheeks. 

“Please?”

“It’s snowing outside,” Felix protests, shivering a little despite being cocooned in a pile of blankets and pressed up against Sylvain, the human equivalent of a furnace. 

“So?” Sylvain hums, scratching his fingers into Felix’s scalp in a light massage. Felix lets his head fall back into Sylvain’s hand, half-turning to gaze out the big bay window. The sun hangs low in the sky where it shines through, bathing them both in hazy orange-gold late winter light. 

_“So,_ who eats ice cream when it’s cold outside?”

“Me!” Felix rolls his eyes when Sylvain leans down to give him a playful bite on the tip of his ear. 

“Besides, we should leave the house today, even if it’s just for a walk. I’m getting restless.”

Felix _could_ complain, he could put up a fight and drag Sylvain back to bed, could fuck him slow and deep until leaving the house is the furthest thing from his mind and he’s an absolute mess between the sheets. Felix could do it, and he _would_ win, but Sylvain’s right, and after four years together, Felix has found himself softened considerably to Sylvain’s pout. 

_“Feeee,"_ Sylvain whines again, tone dipping into something less fussy, more needy as his hands trail hot paths down to palm at Felix’s ass, bare beneath Sylvain’s oversized sweater. Felix hums, shifts his hips up to press into Sylvain’s thigh as freckled fingers ruck the hem up and his thumbs massage, languid and circular, lower, lower, lower until his fingers are pressing against his hole, easy and loose from earlier. 

It’s slow and lazy, the way Sylvain starts opening him up again, butterfly kisses effervescing into quiet pants when Felix twists his hands around to burrow beneath Sylvain’s cotton t-shirt to thumb over each of his nipples with light, teasing touches, like they have all the time in the world. 

“I thought we were getting ice cream,” Felix murmurs, just shy of breathless, into the crease of Sylvain’s neck, laving his tongue over a purpling bruise from earlier. His head lolls into his shoulder as Sylvain’s two fingers crook _just right_ up into him, lets a quiet cry slip out as Sylvain spreads him a little wider.

“Yeah,” Sylvain whispers into the top of his head, pressing a chaste kiss there, “yeah, we are. C’mon, love, let’s shower–” He pulls out, leaving Felix half-hard and too-empty until Sylvain scoops him up in a whirl of limbs and blankets. It’s far too romantic for Felix’s taste, being carried bridal-style down the hall, but he indulges Sylvain, fingers looping around his neck to run through crinkled crimson waves, damp where they stick to sleep-sweat skin.

Sylvain narrowly avoids tripping over the forgotten breakfast tray on their way to the bathroom, littered with two mugs and two plates and a single flower in a vase – Sylvain had served him breakfast in bed that morning, because _of course_ he had, bearing homemade scrambled eggs and sourdough toast from their favorite bakery down the block and drip coffee roasted just the way Felix likes it, dark and just on this side of bitter. He’d waltzed into their bedroom carrying the tray and wearing nothing but a wide, dimpled smile and those loose grey sweatpants Felix loves on him so much, slung dangerously low around his hips. 

They shower the sweat away, taking turns soaping each other up with foaming bubbles until Sylvain’s hands wander south again and Felix finds himself pressed against the glass door, fingers scrabbling to find purchase against the fog and condensation as Sylvain kneels behind him. Sylvain’s tongue and fingers work in tandem, perfectly coordinated from years of learning _exactly_ what makes Felix tick, until he’s crying out and coming hard around the loose circle of Sylvain’s hand, quivering through the aftershocks as Sylvain holds him up, rubbing reassuring patterns into the curve of his hip.

When he finally comes around, he turns to tug lazily at Sylvain’s cock, still hard and slicked-up where it juts against his belly. It doesn’t take long, not when they’re both over-sensitive from spending the whole day bringing each other over the edge of pleasure, not when Felix curls his other hand around the curve of Sylvain’s hip and fingers him open at the same time as his thumb flicks over the frenulum, and Sylvain dissolves into a high-pitched moan that echoes off the subway tiles and through the shower steam to send shivers down Felix’s spine. 

Sylvain lets out a long exhale, arms bracketing around Felix’s shoulders as he leans down to press their foreheads together, still breathing hard. Felix loops his hands around the curve of his ribcage, rinses his fingers of Sylvain’s come in the stream of water quickly going cold on them, presses a small kiss to the corner of Sylvain’s mouth. 

“Still want ice cream?” he murmurs, trying for playful but ending up shaky instead, still breathing a little heavy from his orgasm.

“As much as I want to do this the entire day, I think a break would be… good.” 

Felix huffs a laugh in agreement, and then Sylvain’s wrapping him up in a towel, one of the fluffy, oversized ones that he had insisted on buying when they first moved into their new apartment together, prepared to defend _Turkish cotton_ and _500-thread counts_ until his death.

—

They _somehow_ manage to get out the front door, drying off and dressing with minimal distracting touches of fingers and lips. Sylvain’s wrapped in his wool coat – the one that makes him look like he walked right out of a Burberry ad, unfairly, devastatingly handsome – while Felix is cocooned in the shearling-lined motorcycle jacket Sylvain gifted him this past Christmas, soft and velvety black where the collar brushes up against his chin. Scarves and gloves keep them from absolutely freezing in the chilly February air.

The sidewalks have been mostly shoveled clear, leaving a little maze of walkways weaving through the city among the blanket of snow coating everything, muffling the roar of cars on the highway across town and the soft drip of ice melting down tree branches and window panes. Most everyone has retreated into the warmth of their homes as the sun starts a slow descent down, every shade of summer sherbet splashed across the sky.

The familiar weight of Sylvain’s hand on the small of his back as they walk grounds Felix, and he winds up leaning into the touch, warmly comforting. They pass a few blocks like this in the quiet of each other’s company, Felix content to listen to the barely-there sound of Sylvain humming something low and sweet. 

When Sylvain pulls him off towards the left at the crosswalk of one of the main streets running through the city, Felix tugs back and gives him a confused look. 

“Where are you going?”

Sylvain just smiles back, mysterious and charming, tilts his head at Felix like _he’s_ the one who’s taking a wrong turn. “I thought we could take the long way.”

Felix’s mouth creases into a tiny frown, immediately skeptical even as Sylvain’s gloved fingers tug on the sleeve of his coat. “Syl, that’s not even the long way, that’s the opposite direction.”

“C’mon, indulge me a little bit.” 

Although his smile is easy and wide, Felix can sense the nervous tick of energy – it’s obvious in the way Sylvain bites at his lower lip, unconscious of the fact that he’s even doing it. Felix pauses, eyes flicking up the block Sylvain’s trying to lead them down, hesitating until Sylvain’s hand reaches out to lace their fingers together, the fuzz of their gloves catching on one another's as Sylvain whispers, low and husky into his ear, _please?_

Felix huffs, pretends to think on it for a minute, gives in with a mumbled _fine,_ pressing Sylvain’s hand in a fleeting squeeze before moving down the block. Even though he doesn’t look up, Felix can almost feel Sylvain’s smile, radiating brighter than the sun, as they walk.

—

Sylvain, it turns out, is taking him to a coffee shop.

 _Their_ old coffee shop, to be specific – the one just around the corner from their old apartment, with old rickety rattan chairs and worn leather sofas, busy and open at all hours of the night. It’s calm today, the warm glow of lamplight radiating incandescently from the wide bay windows soft against their faces. Felix crinkles his nose and looks up at Sylvain, unimpressed.

“We could’ve just gotten coffee on the way. We passed like, three different shops.”

“I didn’t bring us here for _coffee,”_ Sylvain murmurs, as if it’s so clearly obvious, and Felix starts to protest, starts to ask _then why did you drag me all the way here,_ before Sylvain pulls him close, bracketing his arms around his shoulders, back to chest, stubbly chin resting at the perfect height on top of Felix’s head.

“Do you remember our first date here?”

Memories surface, fuzzy at first – Felix is _pretty_ sure Ingrid was the one to set them up in the first place, basically bullying Felix into going on a date with one of her then-new girlfriend’s best friends. He doesn’t really remember why he said yes – probably to get Ingrid off his back, or to ease some of Annette’s worries about him being lonely, of all things – but apparently he did, which is how he ended up sitting across from a stranger in a corner booth, fidgeting with his sleeve and sipping too-hot coffee.

Within minutes of meeting Sylvain, Felix immediately wrote him off as a _no_ for a second date. He was too… too _everything:_ too loud, too dumb-smart, too over-the-top goofy, but the thing that stuck out to Felix the most was his laugh: abundant, infectious, and barely real. It shimmered in the air with the practiced sound of someone too used to crafting every reaction to be perfectly sharpened to something glossy, plasticky, fake.

And yet, some part of Felix had been charmed by Sylvain – not to the flashes of fake laughter, but the glimpses of something genuine underneath: the way he’d talked so warmly of his classes and his hockey team, how his eyes lit up when he talked about his roommate Claude and his group of best friends. The feeling of Sylvain’s arms around him when they hugged goodbye, smelling like fresh citrus and cologne. How Ingrid had asked him how their date had gone _(fine),_ and how when Sylvain texted him the next day asking for a second date, he’d inexplicably texted back _yes._

“Hmm. Yeah.”

“You made fun of me for getting hot chocolate.” The laughter from deep in Sylvain’s chest rumbles throughout Felix’s body. 

“Yeah, because you have horrible taste.” Felix rolls his eyes, even though Sylvain can’t see it, nestles his back a little further into Sylvain’s chest. He brings both hands up to cover Sylvain’s, pulls him a little closer.

“Mm. _Clearly,”_ Sylvain hums in amusement, leaning to the side to press a kiss to his temple. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Wait. We came all the way here and we’re not even getting coffee?” He can feel Sylvain smiling into the top of his head before Felix ducks out from underneath his arms and pulls him along towards the door.

—

When they continue up the block, Felix is considerably warmer, clutching a small cup of drip. Sylvain’s leading again, a devious smile curled on his lips. Felix feels light, spontaneous, carried away by the headstrong current that is Sylvain, all grand plans and mysterious smiles, their ice cream date turned into a full-fledged adventure. 

Sylvain’s next destination is nearby, literally around the corner – Felix trails after him, his free hand pushed into Sylvain’s pocket alongside his own. 

“...The first apartment.”

 _“Our_ first apartment!” Sylvain corrects him, tugs on Felix’s hand to stand in the center of the low bricked steps. Felix moves into his orbit easily, tips his chin back to look up at the fourth floor window. Cream brick and windows with white wooden frames and accents of oak look out onto the little residential street just off the main drag. Brick steps run up to the bright red door, the same one they’d fought over trying to cram Sylvain’s stupidly massive sofa through – Felix’s protests of _it’s just not going to fit, Sylvain_ lost to Sylvain’s sniggers of _that’s what she said._

This, of course, had led to Felix snapping at Sylvain so hard that it somehow became their first _real,_ official fight as a couple – Felix storming off to his old apartment in a fit of anger while Sylvain stayed behind to fume at their new place, furniture-less as it was, to stay up late obsessively organizing the kitchen (which, thank god, because Felix did _not_ want anything to do with that). 

Felix wound up showing up at midnight, unable to sleep without the comforting presence of Sylvain behind him, unable to stop himself from replaying their fight over and over again, unable to get the picture of a tear-stained Sylvain moping around their new place together, alone, out of his head. Maybe someone smarter, more romantic, would have brought flowers as an apology, but all Felix offered was a frustrated, half-stuttered apology, furious at himself for snapping, for letting it escalate like it had. 

“Ah, good times,” Sylvain sighs, pulling Felix closer. His tone is dreamy, has that stargazy, sugar-laced-tenor that he gets sometimes when he talks about their future and all the things they’re going to do together, much to Felix’s quiet, blushing happiness. He’s clearly thinking not about the fight, but the absolute _marathon_ of make-up sex they’d gone on after, fucking on nearly every surface in the entire apartment, Felix burning his knees on the rug and Sylvain accidentally smacking his head on the bedroom door, so fast and messy and desperate and relieved to be together again they didn’t care.

“You’re so sappy.”

“Fe, it’s Valentine’s Day. Aren’t I allowed to be at least a _little_ sappy?”

Felix turns to smirk at him, pressing up on his toes to aim a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he murmurs, but behind it there’s a ribbony curl of a smile, laughter pushed through tongue and teeth. Sylvain laughs, grabs his hand, walking half-backwards as he pulls him along.

“Well, too bad.”

—

They head downtown next – which, Felix supposes, they’re just meandering at this point, but he’s not bothered enough to ask Sylvain if he has a plan, or where he’s going, content to press his hand in his and his head in the curve of Sylvain’s neck and chin, a perfect fit, as they continue on. They pass through a side street in a young, “hip” neighborhood filled with trendy tapas bars on top and clubs of every variety in their basements, pumping house music that spills out onto the sidewalks at night.

It was in one of these clubs Felix had first realized he was in _trouble_. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, knocking the breath from his lungs and the rhythm from his heartbeat, skittering staccato, lost in the thrum of bass and the cloying sweetness of cigarettes and cologne in the air. 

Dorothea went wild for her birthday that year (which, she apparently did _every_ year, Felix just didn’t know it yet): a weeklong celebration punctuated with a night out downtown, drinking and dancing until they all stumbled home together, crashing on couches and waking up with the worst hangover they’d have until next year. 

Felix had been perfect-drunk off tequila sodas, enough that he didn’t really care that he didn’t like dancing, and he didn’t like clubs, and he didn’t even really like drinking that much, because what he _did_ really like was Sylvain: looking unfairly beautiful under the flashing neon, his hands anchored around the curve of Felix’s waist as they danced together, thumbs hooking into the front belt loop of Felix’s jeans to draw him even closer. 

Felix could see Ingrid over by the bar, could see Dorothea’s hands slipping into the back pocket of her jeans, could see that his and Sylvain’s best friends were very clearly, desperately in love, and when Felix tipped his head back onto Sylvain’s shoulder to look up at him, all he could think was _oh shit, me too._

Sylvain was beautiful four years ago (he’s still beautiful now, Felix thinks, but in a more rugged, rough-around-the-edges kind of way that he absolutely adores), brilliantly, boyishly handsome, the dimple in his cheek barely-there, tan and freckled all over. They’d both been college students when they first met, young and sometimes too stubborn and often idiotic and very, _very_ into each other.

Felix remembers Sylvain’s hair, wet where it stuck against the nape of his neck, flashing a dull crimson among the pink and blue holographics; remembers their clothes catching friction as Felix arched his back against Sylvain’s chest, tipped his head back to breath hot into his ear; remembers the heady rush of adrenaline when he realized Sylvain had been paying attention to him and only him all night long, and _fuck_ did it feel good.

He remembers the careful way Sylvain had thumbed his cheek to the side, had etched hot breaths and trailing, featherlight kisses all the way to his ear before he whispered, soft and low, _let’s get out of here, love._

If Sylvain notices the hot blush fanning across Felix’s cheeks as they pass that club in question hand-in-hand, he doesn’t say anything.

—

Felix already knows what’s next when Sylvain leads him into the pine trees flanking the park entrance and pulls him down towards the dock. 

“Our first kiss, hm?” 

At this point, Felix can’t help the smile that crosses his face – Sylvain’s energy is infectious, and right now Felix is happy to indulge him. Sylvain smiles back, vaguely nostalgic as the toes of their boots hit the damp wood of the dock, swaying beneath their footsteps where it floats on the silent lake.

Sylvain bundles him close, snug in the crook of his elbow.

“Yeah, do you remember?”

Felix blushes and looks away across the water. Weak sunlight still shines down on them, warming his cheeks, illuminating each of Sylvain’s freckles in the most perfect, heartbreaking way. Felix steps in to nudge his forehead into the soft folds of the scarf looped around Sylvain’s neck, weaving his fingers between Sylvain’s.

“Of course I remember, you idiot.”

It’d been their last picnic together before summer gave way to fall, the city sweltering with heavy, humid heat and mosquitos. They’d found shelter in the cool breeze by the lake, spending entire weekends sailing on Dimitri’s family’s boat, swimming circles around each other and crushing can after can of cold beer and wine coolers. Ingrid and Dorothea had been the glue that slowly fused the two separate friend groups together, an organic, magical thing that just seemed to _happen_ – Ashe and Annette immediately clicking to become the most predictable friends; Ferdinand and Mercedes unlikely mother-hen figures to the rest of the group; Dimitri and Claude so stupidly flustered around each other they put Sylvain and Felix to shame.

The sun was setting, Felix remembered, the rest of the group packing their blankets and baskets up by the shore while he gazed out across the water alone, swinging his feet from the edge of the dock. The lake was nearly bathwater-warm at that point, having spent a full few months heating up under the sun. 

The creaky sway of wooden boards announced Sylvain’s arrival – they’d only known each other for a handful of months, but something about his lazy swagger had engrained itself into Felix’s brain already – looking like a swimsuit model with his tousled hair and his broad, bare shoulders and his nearly sunburnt cheeks. 

They’d gone on three dates at that point, fleeting little interactions that left Felix feeling inexplicably warm inside, left him to replay each scene on a loop in his head for a solid week after the fact, left him missing the warmth of the hugs Sylvain wrapped him in each time they parted ways outside of a coffee shop or a movie theater or a restaurant.

Felix had seen Sylvain at gatherings like this, too, which were maybe even better than their dates – glimpses of the _real_ Sylvain, the person he was when he wasn’t trying to impress Felix in a formal date setting. They’d spent hours huddled in Dorothea’s hallway during a particularly rowdy party, talking about everything and nothing as Sylvain’s fingers stroked, casually familiar, over the curve of Felix’s arm through his turtleneck; had spent the length of an entire movie with their fingers tangled in one another’s, both trying to ignore the sounds of Dorothea and Ingrid undoubtedly making out to the left of them.

 _Hey,_ Sylvain murmured, taking a seat beside Felix. 

_Hey._

_Done swimming?_ Sylvain asked. Felix shrugged in response.

_Nah, I might go in one last time._

That was around the time Felix started counting Sylvain’s smiles – the _real_ ones, not the fake, glossy ones – collecting each of them like they were shiny treasures and Felix was a magpie, each one aimed like an arrow shot straight through his heart. They were almost crippling, blinding in their brightness and straight teeth, marked by an imperfect, single dimple Felix wanted to taste with his tongue and map with his fingertips a million times over. 

Sylvain turned to flash one at him, and Felix remembers the distinct feeling of his heart fluttering weakly. W _hat are you waiting for?_

 _I don’t know,_ Felix said.

 _Well,_ and here was where Sylvain had stretched his arms above his head, yawned, and Felix had willed all of his blood to _not_ immediately rush south at the sight of it, _no time like the present._

Sylvain’s smirk, for whatever reason, gave Felix the push he needed, and before he could lose his nerve he got to his feet and pulled Sylvain’s hand up. C _’mon, three, two–_

Felix jumped, wild and careless and free, the warm hazy water enveloping him completely. He floated slowly back to the surface, letting the buoyancy carry him back up in rippling waves. When he surfaced, Sylvain was still standing above him on the dock, pushing his fingers through his hair, smiling down at him.

 _Why didn’t you jump?_ Felix asked when he swam back up to the edge, fingertips curling around the edge of the dock, a scowl on his face.

Sylvain tugged through a snarled tangle, shrugged sheepishly, said _I don’t know._

 _Don’t keep me waiting,_ Felix said, just on this side of flippant, tucking a loose strand of wet hair behind his ear before swimming back out towards the horizon, kicking his feet and twirling his fingers through the water, his hair flowing, loose inky twilight around his shoulders. 

There was a quiet splash behind him, the water’s surface barely rippling after Sylvain’s dive. He surfaced – hair wild and wet, dripping water down his nose and off his chin, eyelashes sticking together like starlight and bonfires and fireworks and other beautiful, explosive things – and smiled, breathlessly treading water. Then Sylvain swam a little closer, and even though it was the only time they’d ever done this, Felix felt like they were two magnets, pulled together inexorably, when he pressed his fingertips into the tops of Sylvain’s shoulders, and Sylvain’s broad palms swam through the foggy water to pull his waist in closer. Somehow, Sylvain’s face wound up slotted right above his, breath sweet with citrusy gum when he whispered _I won’t_ against Felix’s mouth, before sealing their lips together for the first time. It was everything Felix imagined and more: warm and wet and lovely, the tips of Sylvain’s hair dripping lakewater onto his cheeks; sweet heaviness where their mouths fit against each other’s; one of Sylvain’s hands coming up to brush a trickle of water off the tip of Felix’s nose before finishing his sentence, _keep you waiting, Fe._

They kissed, and kissed, and _kissed_ in the shadow of the dock, as the water grew chilly and the sun went down and their friends wolf-whistled at them from the shore. It was dark by the time they dried off, summer air sticky-sweet on their skin as they curled into each other on the lingering warmth of the dock, Felix fitting into Sylvain’s side just as perfectly as all the times Felix had ever daydreamed it. 

“Hey, wanna recreate it? The kiss?” Sylvain’s voice rumbles through Felix’s chest, breath puffing warm over the top of his head. 

“Sylvain. The lake is half frozen.” Felix’s words come out muffled against the wool of Sylvain’s coat. 

“So?”

Felix pulls back a hair to look up at him, eyebrows arching past amused and into skeptical. “You’re crazy.”

“Yeah, crazy for _you.”_ Sylvain’s smirk is the same as ever: insufferable, impossible, insatiable. Felix can barely get the words _shut up_ out around his peals of laughter when Sylvain leans down to kiss him. It’s just as sweet, if not moreso, than their first.

—

This is surely where the tour ends, Felix thinks, as they leave behind the lengthening shadows of the park. They’ve walked over half the city at this point, the sun is finally setting, and his toes are starting to get cold through the layers of thick socks and leather boots he has on.

“One more stop, I promise,” Sylvain hums, sing-song, as his fingers tug Felix along twisted alleyways of cobblestone, past the shiny lure of neon warmth and the quiet, cozy light of restaurants and bars and late-night coffee shops, into the paved brick haven of their former university’s campus.

It’s always looked something like a fairytale blanketed in snow, but there’s something especially magical about it today – branches of cedar and elm hang low and heavy with snow, the pristine, untouched stretch of lawn in front of the grand old brick buildings perfectly crisp. Maybe it’s the way the ruby-topaz light from the almost-sunset hits the snow-capped rooftops just so; maybe it’s the way Sylvain’s lashes, filtered amber, catch in it as he laughs and smiles, murmurs a soft _c’mon, darling_ at Felix as he walks half-backward along the slushy sidewalk.

Sylvain leads Felix towards the brick square, empty save for the two of them. The circular fountain isn’t running, not in this weather, but Sylvain pulls him towards it regardless. 

“Do you remember?”

Felix looks around: there’s the lawn they used to gather in between classes, bare feet in spring grass and buttercups; there’s the window of the classroom where he took that god-awful literature class (he’d wound up failing, even under Claude’s tutelage); there’s the notorious loose brick, the one Sylvain had tripped over and almost gotten a concussion from.

And then there’s Sylvain, grasping at both of his hands, his touch warm through the two layers of gloves, looking at Felix like he hung the moon and all of her stars, patient and loving and kind. 

“No, Syl... this is just the fountain.”

Felix doesn’t know what Sylvain’s trying to get him to catch on to, and he racks his brain even as Sylvain looks down at him with all the enthusiasm in the world, untangles their fingers to point off to the side of the fountain and the concrete ledge leading up to the water’s edge.

“We were sitting right over there,” Sylvain says.

Something snaps into place, rose-colored and burning of nostalgia. How could he forget? Recognition dawns on his face as he turns his head back to Sylvain.

“This is where you first said–”

“–I love you,” Sylvain finishes for him, absolutely beaming when he brings his hands up to cradle Felix’s face, to pull him into a kiss so gentle it knocks the breath out of him. His lips are chapped from the dry cold, but Sylvain’s fingers are tilting his head up and to the side _just so,_ doing the thing with his tongue that Sylvain _knows_ makes him lose his mind a little bit. When they part, Felix feels a little bit breathless.

“Mm. You stole the words right out of my mouth.”

Sylvain laughs against his lower lip, slides his thumb across his cheek. Now he’s kissing him again, chaste little things that spread fleeting and hot across Felix’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his eyelids.

“I love you, Fe,” Sylvain murmurs, but he’s shushing Felix with his thumb dragging across his lip, “and there’s something I want to ask you.”

Sylvain pulls away, and Felix’s heart just about stops as he reaches into his jacket pocket, the one sewn into the inside lining, to pull out – 

A perfectly square velvet box.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fuck. It’s happening._

Sylvain clears his throat, a rare blush hot on his cheeks. He’s _nervous,_ Felix can tell, that jittery energy from earlier back full-fledged. Felix reaches out, grazes his chin with his thumb, cups his fingers along his jawline, half to soothe Sylvain, half to ground himself. 

“I– I’ve been carrying this around for weeks,” Sylvain admits with a soft huff of a laugh, “waiting for the right place, the right time. And I know, I know you said you didn’t want to do anything for Valentine’s Day, and this is the– the exact opposite of that–” Now it’s Felix’s turn to laugh, shaky and nervous, and Sylvain pauses, takes a grounding breath.

“But I love you, Fe. And I’ve known for so long, almost from the minute I met you, that this is what I want. You, every day, forever. If you’ll have me.”

Sylvain breathes deep again, and he’s the most perfect vision before Felix, catching all the colors of the sunset. 

“Felix, will you marry me?”

Now Sylvain’s getting down on one knee, and some part of Felix vaguely hears himself whisper _oh my god,_ can feel the well of tears in his eyes, because it’s happening – Sylvain’s thumb flicks open the box, and nestled inside is a thin band of black, a stream of coppery gold running through it. All of the sarcastic, negative things Felix has ever said or thought about how cheesy wedding rings and public proposals are melt away and disappear in that moment, because this one is _perfect –_ not because of the color or the cut, but because it’s Sylvain kneeling before him, earnest and honest. There’s no nervousness in his hazel eyes now, just pure _love,_ so much that Felix feels like he’s drowning in it. 

“Sylvain, I don’t know what to say–”

Sylvain cuts him off, fingers tangling to take Felix’s left hand in his, giving him a gentle squeeze. 

“Just say you will,” Sylvain says, as if it’s the simplest, easiest thing in the world.

Maybe it is.

Felix barely registers whispering it, the first breathless little _I will,_ too caught up in the way Sylvain tugs his glove off and takes his trembling hand in his and slides the cool metal band home. It’s a perfect fit, smooth and a little heavy where Felix’s thumb rubs instinctively against it, cool beneath the press of Sylvain’s lips as he rises from his knees to wrap Felix up in a flurry of kisses, his other hand finding its way to the small of his back. 

_Say it again,_ Sylvain murmurs into the curve of his lips. _I will,_ Felix says again, unable to stop the stupidly wide grin from spreading across his face against Sylvain’s mouth, _yes, yes, I will,_ capturing the edges of Sylvain’s jaw with his hands, one still gloved, the other cold and sparkling with the gleam of the ring, _yes,_ kissing slow and sweet with tongue and teeth, _I will._

—

They’re wrapped up in each other the minute their front door closes behind them – a little before that, too, Felix nearly horizontal in the backseat of the car Sylvain called to take them back home, fingers scrambling in the lapels of his wool coat, ring catching against his scarf as Sylvain pressed him down into the cracked leather – Felix sucking kiss after kiss into Sylvain’s neck above his collar, Sylvain’s fingers charting a slow, steady path south. 

Felix pulls away to push his coat off and kick his boots across the floor, Sylvain quickly following suit before his arms wrap around him again to hoist him up. Felix yelps a breathless laugh at being carried through their apartment and deposited down on their bed.

“I can't believe you proposed to me on my least favorite holiday,” Felix mumbles, letting Sylvain tug him around and press him down into the sheets, pliant under his touch as he pushes up his sweater and leans down to trail his tongue wet-hot against his stomach. 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Sylvain admits, pausing over his hipbone to look up at him, eyes flashing fever-bright. Felix arches his back up into Sylvain’s touch as his fingertips trail over the button of his jeans, featherlight, too teasing to satisfy the need for friction. “Like I said, I was waiting for the right time–”

“Uh-huh,” Felix teases, ruffling his hands through Sylvain’s hair, craning his neck to watch the rose gold and tungsten ring slide through crimson waves, lit up by the ochre phosphorescence from the city lights outside.

“So all of that– mm, _fuck–”_ Sylvain’s fingers pop open the button swiftly, moving down to the zipper, and even that tiny bit of friction has Felix tilting his hips up unashamedly. “That whole tour of the city you took me on, you’re telling me that wasn’t planned?”

Sylvain tilts his head to look up at him, impossibly fond, as his fingers slide through Felix’s belt loops to tug his jeans off. 

“Nope.” Sylvain’s laugh sends shivers up Felix’s spine. “I walked by our old place the other day, and it got me thinking about all our firsts together–”

“Oh–” Felix gasps out. He meant it as a question, but it turns long and reedy towards the end, syllables stretching into a high whine where they slip out of him as Sylvain’s hand moves to prop one of his legs up and his lips start biting rough kisses into the insides of his thighs. Sylvain’s fingers dip down to circle his hole, pressing in gently, and Felix can’t bite back the low moan as he twists his fingers into auburn hair and slings his calf over Sylvain’s shoulder, face flushing high and hot.

“Like the first time you fucked me,” Sylvain continues, basically purring now, punctuating chaste kisses between each word, “you felt so good inside me,” and now he’s slipping his thumb into him, and Felix is squirming beneath his touch, rocking his hips back to fuck himself on it, his cock already dripping slick onto his stomach, “do you remember how tight I was for you, sweetheart?”

Yeah, Felix remembers – how could he forget Sylvain clenching down around him, eyes hazy and unfocused as Felix fucked him at a near-punishing pace, dirty and hard and fast, exactly how Sylvain begged for it, drooling as he came with Felix’s fingers around his cock and his throat? 

It’s so much more difficult to focus on words when Sylvain is like this, whispering filthy-sweet memories into the curve of his thighs and the bruises and bite marks he’s left there, working him open slow and steady. _Re_ _member how good I was for you, you looked so beautiful fucking me open on your cock, I loved it so much, remember, Fe?_

Sylvain’s dirty talk is borderline ridiculous, almost over-the-top, but Felix knows he means every word – they flood shivery heat through all his limbs; pull a low, raw moan from his throat.

“Yes, I remember, Sylvain, now fucking touch me, _please–”_

“I’ll do you one better, darling,” Sylvain hums, and plucks himself off of Felix to grab a bottle of lube from the nightstand. Felix keeps himself busy by tugging his sweater off and propping himself up on a pillow. The way Sylvain’s looking at him right now, all hooded eyes and flushed cheeks, makes Felix’s cock twitch hard against his belly. He doesn’t touch it, though, hands wandering up towards his chest instead, thumbing over each nipple with a breathy sigh, half-real, half-exaggerated, meant to drive Sylvain wild. 

“I can't believe my _husband_ is the sexiest man on the planet,” Sylvain murmurs as he moves closer, lube sufficiently warmed between his fingers, so goddamn cheesy in his honesty it makes Felix roll his eyes, even though hearing the word _husband_ in Sylvain’s voice makes his heart skip at least a few beats.

“We’re not even married yet,” Felix teases when they break away, cupping Sylvain’s jaw in one hand and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, tugging on his lower lip with his teeth. 

“What, getting cold feet already?”

“Ah–” Sylvain’s fingers slip back inside of him, two at once. Felix moans, feeling halfway strung out already, arching up to catch Sylvain’s lips again, his free hand cupping beneath his knee, pulling his leg up and out, “oh, babe, never–”

Felix can faintly hear Sylvain’s sharp inhale at the pet name, the one he saves for special occasions and when he’s too fucked out to realize what he’s saying, but before he can gather his wits enough to repeat it, Sylvain’s tongue presses against the hard line of his dick, and the wet plush velvet of his mouth becomes the only thing Felix cares to focus on.

 _Fuck, Syl, close–_ is all the warning Felix gives, and when he comes, it’s with three of Sylvain’s fingers curved snug up inside, rubbing over the spot Sylvain learned long ago can (and has) instantly brought Felix to his knees; his cock buried in Sylvain’s throat, thrusting shallowly up to fuck his mouth. It’s messy and hot, Sylvain dripping spit from the corners of his lips, gazing up at him in shades of burnished hazel as Felix chokes on a cry, buries his hands in Sylvain’s sweat-slicked hair, and comes harder than he has in a long time. 

“God, I love you.”

Sylvain’s words come out slurred with delight, sounding completely wrecked as he slides up the bed, fingers petting gently over Felix’s hips, chest, face as he shakes through the aftershocks and curls up into him. Felix can taste himself on Sylvain’s tongue and kisses him back anyway, too far fucked and in love to care about much at all. Sylvain holds him, patiently soothing his thumbs over his ribs, letting his lips linger across Felix’s forehead. His breathing eventually mellows out enough for him to say _I love you too_ into the slope of Sylvain’s neck, fingers skittering low to his belt buckle where his cock is hard and straining.

 _Wanna make you feel good,_ he continues, savoring Sylvain’s weak groan when he rolls onto his knees to strip him, pulling off his jeans and pushing up his shirt, _wanna taste you,_ this elicits a higher noise from Sylvain, who buries his hands in Felix’s hair to gently tug his bun loose, _wanna ride you,_ as he finishes undressing Sylvain and swings a leg over his thighs, leaning down to swirl his tongue around his nipple. 

Felix has never been as good at talking during sex as Sylvain – it’s one of his natural-born talents, coming as easily to him as winning overly complicated board games and lighting up a room with his energetic charm and taking Felix to pieces with open-mouthed kisses and skillful fingers – but he knows it drives Sylvain absolutely crazy, so he gives it his best shot.

 _I can’t wait to have you inside me,_ Felix says, trailing hot kisses into the shell of Sylvain’s ear, sliding his left hand down to tug lazily at his dick. Y _ou always fill me up so well_ . The whine that comes from Sylvain is near-pitiful, and when Felix pulls back, his eyes are half-lidded, blown tourmaline and hazy with lust. The drag of Felix’s ring against Sylvain’s cock sparks a completely new sensation for both of them, his hips bucking up for more when Felix murmurs _lube, now,_ and Sylvain scrambles to comply. He slicks Sylvain up and lifts his hips up, lining up easily – the way that their bodies fit together wonderfully familiar by now – and sinks down. 

The stretch is good – it always is – but right now he’s overstimulated and the blunt pressure of Sylvain sliding into him blurs the world at its edges, riding the line of _overwhelming_ and _just right_ as he bottoms out in Sylvain’s lap. Freckled hands dance across his silhouette: thumbing over his nipples, rubbing circles into his ribcage, biting kisses into the sweaty dampness of his neck. Sylvain shushes his whimpers with soft, coaxing kisses, pulling Felix close as he adjusts, dizzy with pleasure of feeling so _full._

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sylvain gasps, finally anchoring his hands around Felix’s hips to help drag him up and down, “look at you, baby, you’re so perfect, you’re doing so good, you take me so well.”

Felix’s fingertips clench into the tops of Sylvain’s shoulders, mouth parting open in needy, rough little cries he barely recognizes; his cock bobs against his stomach, already half-hard again and drooling lazily onto both their stomachs as he rides him. He can’t manage a faster pace, not when his muscles are still trembling and spasming, but it’s still good, maybe even better like this, Sylvain doing most of the work, each thrust hitting so deep he thinks he might actually cry – especially when Sylvain’s looking up at him with unfocused eyes and a soft smile, earnest and lovely, murmuring things like _you’re so good for me, look at you, sweetheart, you feel incredible, like you’re made for me, mine._

Felix slumps forward, fits his mouth to Sylvain’s neck and starts up again, letting his brain switch off and his mouth run: _Syl, I love you, ah, fuck, oh–_ until his words fall apart into half-fragments of Sylvain’s name, eyes shut tight against the sweaty skin of his neck as Sylvain thrusts hard up into him. _Co_ _me inside, babe, fill me up–_

Sylvain startles and jerks, steady rhythm turning erratic as one hand peels itself away from Felix’s hip – twining their fingers together, thumbing over his ring, both of their hands resting over Felix’s heart – and then Sylvain is arching up, their foreheads meeting in a mess of sweaty hair, Sylvain whimpering stretched-out, whiny little repetitions of _Fe, Fe, Fe_ when he comes, sudden and hot inside of him, perfectly full, incredibly complete. 

Felix is weak and shivery in his lap, his world narrowed down to Sylvain and only Sylvain: his hands, stroking gentle paths down his back; his cock, softening inside of him, warm and wet and still stretching him so good; his lips, trailing love in the softest kisses to the top of his head. 

Sylvain is careful when he rolls him over, brackets him in his arms and wraps his hand gently around his dick, rough-worn thumbs the perfect contrast to where Felix is hard and leaking, and when Felix comes for the second time it’s with low, bitten-off cries of _I love you, I love you, love you,_ pulsing around Sylvain’s fingers, boneless against the bed, limbs ashiver as Sylvain wraps him up, safe and tight in his arms.

—

“So, when should our wedding be?”

Sylvain’s voice is still a little throaty from earlier, floating low and husky where Felix is pressed up against him. They’re lounging in bed – after a long hot shower where Sylvain washed Felix’s hair while he painted mauve splotches across Sylvain’s neck with his mouth – warm and clean, each holding a half-full cup of champagne. Sylvain insisted upon opening it after their shower – _to celebrate, Fe! –_ and now Felix is sleepy and comfortable, bubbles effervescing on his tongue as he comes dangerously close to falling asleep against Sylvain’s chest. A hand comes up to twirl through a loose strand of his hair, escaped from the sloppy braid Sylvain tied it up in.

“We’ll have to start planning soon,” Sylvain continues. He flips the braid to hang over his other shoulder, making way for his lips to press a soft kiss to his neck.

“Mm.” Felix stretches back against him. Sylvain gets like this after sex sometimes, talkative and energetic, wanting to daydream about their future together like the hopeless romantic he is. Felix mostly gets so tired he wants to fall asleep in Sylvain’s arms. “Next spring?”

It’s a total guess – Felix has been to a total of two weddings in his entire life, both for distant, rich relatives on his father’s side of the family. Dorothea and Ingrid’s wedding at the end of this summer will be the first one he’s actually excited about – aside from their own. 

He feels the curve of Sylvain’s pout against his neck, lips dragging over the ridges of his spine. “Fe, that’s _so_ long from now!”

“Hmm, tomorrow, then?” Felix teases back, tilting his head back and to the side to look up at him. Sylvain’s hair is still wet, curling up at the ends, framing amber lashes fanned across his cheeks and an amused smile.

“Sweetheart, I’d go down to the courthouse right this second, you know that.”

The remaining champagne bubbles spark fire in his throat on their way down. Felix rolls his eyes and leans across Sylvain’s chest to set the empty cup down on the nightstand; rearranges his limbs so that his arms are looped, lazy and loose, around Sylvain’s neck, fingers carding through his hair absentmindedly. 

“...and we _aren’t_ doing that because…?”

Sylvain catches his mouth in a soft kiss in response and he falls into it, easy as anything, tilting his head as Sylvain’s fingers come up to brush, satin-soft, against the side of his face. He tastes clean and sparkly, and Felix sips in the champagne kisses, one by one, until they’re both a little out of breath.

“We’re only gonna get married once. I wanna do it right.”

Felix supposes he has a point. Still, he sighs, rolls his eyes, closes the gap between them to tuck his forehead beneath Sylvain’s chin, breathing in the heady scent of clean soap and eucalyptus. Sylvain’s arms bracket him in on both sides, his leg hitched over the curve of Sylvain’s hip, pressing his toes (freezing, like always) into Sylvain’s skin (burning up, _also_ like always), stretching out against the shape of his body.

It’s embarrassing, what he says next, so he mumbles it into the hollow of Sylvain’s collarbone: “Can we at least go get you a ring, too?”

He feels Sylvain shift above him, hears the clink of the glass on the nightstand and the click of the lamp off. The room is draped in muted darkness around them, and Sylvain finally scoots down the pillow. He sounds sleepy when he responds, the constant circle of his thumb soothing against Felix’s scalp.

“I’ll get mine during the ceremony, love.”

Felix’s eyes flutter shut at the rhythmic motion of Sylvain’s hand petting through his hair, lashes fanning over his bare chest, breath marking a spot of wet condensation on Sylvain’s clavicle when he asks, “Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s tradition, I guess.” Sylvain shrugs against him, burrows a little closer, but Felix sits up halfway at this – since when has Sylvain ever been one to want to adhere to tradition?

“Fuck tradition.”

He scowls, bringing his hand up to thread his fingers through Sylvain’s, the shine of the ring distracting in the moonlight. Sylvain blinks up at him, nonplussed, before a small, sleepy smile blossoms on his face.

“And why’s that, Fe?”

“Because.” Felix huffs, slots his face into Sylvain’s neck again, pressing an indecent, sloppy kiss to his carotid. “I want everyone to know you’re mine,” he whispers, softer this time, the words sticking on his tongue, forced out. He’s never been good expressing feelings – he knows this, Sylvain knows this, and yet – he’s trying his hardest, and Sylvain still loves him anyways.

“Aw, Fe. Look at you, getting sappy.”

“Shut up.” 

Felix can’t deny the smile that he presses into Sylvain’s skin, all teeth. Sylvain presses in closer, fingers tilting Felix’s face to look up at him. He looks heartbreakingly beautiful like this, aglow in the streetlight, tangled up together, surprisingly pleased at Felix’s admission. _Mine,_ Felix thinks contentedly, thumbing over Sylvain’s stubbled jawline to run his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, we can go get my ring this weekend, okay?” 

Felix presses a muffled _mkay_ into Sylvain’s neck, suddenly feeling overcome with exhaustion. He lets his body relax completely down into the bed, readjusting their tangle of legs slightly before settling down for good, warm and cozy and completely at home.

“I can’t wait to be your husband, Fe.”

Sylvain’s voice comes out quiet and thoughtful in the dark. Felix breathes in deep, pressing one last kiss to Sylvain’s chest before letting his head fall back on the pillow, sleep starting to drag him under. 

“Me too.”

The warm press of metal is snug around his finger, a dreamy, golden promise of their future.

**Author's Note:**

> [justine](https://twitter.com/jusbene) and i collab'd on this as part of the sylvix slam for january/february! pls check out her [art for the grocery store scene](https://twitter.com/i/events/1228142116750209027?s=13), it's V CUTE ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> tysm to [levii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviicorpus) for beta-ing this!!! ily!
> 
> happy valentine's day, everyone (especially sylvix) ❤️


End file.
